


Everything and Nothing

by blackcoffeeandteardrops



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:20:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcoffeeandteardrops/pseuds/blackcoffeeandteardrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She waits a week to call him the first time. One shot revival-era MSR, because my brain would not leave me alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything and Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Note: To say that I'm nervous about even thinking about posting this would be an understatement. A recent convert to this dumb show that has ruined my life in the best possible way, I suppose it was only a matter of time before I tried my hand at writing the characters I love so much. I'm not a hundred percent sure I've got them down pat, but for a first try it's not entirely terrible. 
> 
> Suffice it to say, I had the image of revival-era Scully sitting alone in her apartment and calling him in my brain, and for once the plot bunnies allowed me to do something about it. 
> 
> Thanks to those who listen to me ramble and to those who have in any way helped me cope with my feelings towards these characters. I owe you.

She waits a week to call him the first time.

It's not procrastination so much as hesitation, or fear perhaps, but it's also a desire to give him space.

She cradles the phone in her hand, thumb hovering over his name, teeth gently resting against her bottom lip. They have called each other hundreds if not thousands of times, and yet this is different. The memory of leaning in, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips before driving away burns in her mind.

Despite leaving, she loves him deeper than she's ever thought possible, and more than anything wants him to be okay. In truth, she's a bit relieved when the call automatically goes to voicemail.

"Mulder, it's me..." she begins, as if things between them are perfectly normal and everything is fine. She pauses before telling him the most mundane things about her day. She met her neighbor, an older woman who also lives alone, not to mention a young patient she has who she remains hopeful for-but she stops just short of telling him she misses him.

It's not until her head hits the pillow that night that she wonders whether or not he was actually screening her call.

The calls become a habitual thing, almost like clockwork. Saturday evenings with a glass of wine, a good book, and a scheduled message with his voicemail. She catches him up on the stupidest things, and each time she's not at all surprised when he doesn't answer. She's telling him a bit more about the young patient, how despite everything they're trying she just isn't thriving, but has to stop because she feels herself getting worked up.

"Anyway, I should go. I just..." she pauses, tears clouding her vision. She runs her fingers over the hem of the shirt he's probably realized by now she stole. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

The word is cold and hollow and tastes like ash, but she means it. The Mulder she left behind was not the same one that had started the journey with her years before. He'd delved into his neverending quest, and while at times it was fine, he'd slowly but surely shoved her to the recesses of his life, and it was a place she desperately didn't want to be. She'd used the hospital as an excuse; to find an apartment much closer just made sense. They'd both known there was more to it than that.

Weeks turn into months, and the calls continue. Sometimes she gets stuck at work and the calls are texts instead. She tells him about songs she hears or movies she sees, and though it pains her, the occasional dates she goes on. They don't happen often, but they're enough that she feels she has to tell him. Maybe it's not healthy, she thinks, one evening as she sits down to call him again. Despite the hope that clamors in her chest, he never answers the phone. And yet, she thinks, she's never been told that his voicemail box is full.

She picks at the label on a bottle of a brand of beer she'd previously only bought because it was one he liked, and she tries to not think about what that might mean. If he listens, then he has to know how she feels, and he has to know that she's only trying to do what's right. The trouble is she's found herself questioning how right it is anymore.

The messages continue, and the cases do, too. She buries herself in work and research, and she excitedly tells him of an invitation she's received to guest lecture at a university. Her work in medicine is solid and real and it means something, and she wants to share it with him. "Anyway, I should go. Do you even listen...you know what, it doesn't matter..." she says, her words blending together. Truthfully, she hasn't delved into just how bad one of her patients has gotten, mostly because it's too much to leave on someone's voicemail, but also because the more she thinks about it the more it hurts. But tonight she's drank more than she should've and she's feeling more bold than she has in months, so she ends the message more bravely than any of the others. "I miss you."

Summer bleeds into fall. The leaves begin to change and the air grows more crisp, and she finds herself feeling a little sad. She lectures at the college and she accepts requests to offer her opinion on scholarly articles, and she treats her patients the best she can. In truth everything is fine, but she can't help but feel like her world is off kilter; as much as she wants it to, a piece of the puzzle just won't stay in place.

Her phone rings in the middle of the night, shattering the quiet air of her apartment. For a brief moment, she lets herself hope that it's him, but when she sees it's the hospital, her heart drops. They're doing their duty, informing her a patient has died, and the reality that this isn't the first once she's lost does not make it hurt any less. She hastily throws on clothes and pulls her hair back before heading in to work. There are parents who have lost their child that she has to console. As she parks her car in the hospital's garage, she gingerly holds the cross around her neck, praying for strength.

It's Saturday, but she doesn't call him that night. She hasn't actually forgotten, but after speaking for an extended period of time with the parents, decided burying herself in her work was preferable than going home to an empty bed. She knows how easy it would be, to just drive home-theirs, the one they'd chosen together-and let herself back in, allow herself to forgive the mistakes and convince herself to be happy with things as they were. At least in theory. They would yell and maybe cry and most definitely be angry, but in the end they'd be okay, or so she tells herself. But that same fear of what would happen is what keeps her sitting at her desk, eyes glued to her computer screen, reading the pdf of an article intended for submission to the American Journal of Medicine.

It is dark and far past her normal time of leaving when she opens the hospital doors and is struck by the chilly air. November has never been kind, and this is no different.

She fumbles with her keys, but stops just short of her apartment, not entirely surprised to see the man standing outside her door. Her feet feel cemented to the floor, and despite desperately trying to find it, her voice has abandoned her.

A half smile forms on his lips, but worry is etched in his eyes. "You didn't call."

She hates herself a little for it, but a laugh escapes her lips.

He edges closer, reaching for the keys dangling from her hand. "You wanna let us in?"

"Mulder," she mutters, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. She blinks back tears which she insists to herself are from exhaustion, and hands him the keys, still finding herself unable to move.

It takes him a few moments sorting for the correct one, but he opens the door and waits until she finally walks past him. He shuffles in, back resting against the wooden door and hands in his pockets, not entirely certain of what's to come next.

"Did you really drive all the way here because I didn't call?" she asks, setting her purse on the sofa and shrugging her coat off. Her back is turned to him, but she can feel his eyes on her. "Mulder, if you listened to my messages, why wouldn't you-"

"She died, didn't she?"

At his words, she loses her composure. Tears spill down her cheeks, and she shakes her head, but is still too stubborn to turn and look at him.

He walks over, placing a hand on her shoulder, hoping she doesn't notice the way his thumb twitches at coming into contact with the bare skin of her neck. It's been months since he's touched her. "Scully, it's okay."

She shakes her head and counts to ten, telling herself that if she keeps counting maybe everything will feel normal again. But by the time she gets to thirty, he's still there with his hand resting on her shoulder but saying nothing, and she knows none of this is a dream. Without warning, she turns in his arm. For a second she feels the urge to kiss him, but buries her face in his chest instead. They stand there for a few minutes, one solid unit of love and grief, and when she closes her eyes it feels like no time has really passed.

He plants a quiet kiss on the top of her head, guessing at the things she'll still allow, and lets out a sigh of relief when she doesn't pull away. "You wanna talk about what happened?"

She almost cries again, but instead toes off her heels and pulls him towards the sofa, too afraid to lose physical contact. "I don't know if I can. And really, you didn't have to drive all this way for me. Especially not after-"

"Don't worry about that right now," he insists, catching a tendril of hair between his fingertips and tucking it behind her ear. "You can talk, if you want, but you don't have to."

"I've been talking, Mulder. You're the one who wasn't answering," her words come harsher than she meant for them too, but when he doesn't move away, she reaches for his hand and laces their fingers together before speaking. "It happened this morning, around four. Despite the protocol my team and I designed for her, her immune system in the end was simply too weak. She was fine, yesterday, but-"

"This isn't your fault, Scully," he says, tongue darting out to moisten parched lips, eyes locking with hers. "None of it."

He's talking about her patient, of course, but words between them have always been loaded with meaning. "It's a two hour drive back to Virginia," she says, her voice wavering slightly.

"Yes, it is," he replies with a nod.

"You drove two hours to make sure I was okay," she says, almost not believing it herself, but of course he did. It wouldn't be the first time he's done something for her, and she knows it won't be the last. "I don't suppose you thought much farther than that."

He shrugs, leaning into the sofa cushions. "How are you, Scully? I mean really. I know you can't be telling me everything in some message."

She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or maybe even scream, because of the countless ways she'd imagined them having this conversation, this was never one of them. It's far too late and he knows her all too well for her to pretend everything is fine. "I've spent months having a relationship with your voicemail, Mulder, so you essentially know how I am. I'd like to hear about you."

He chuckles to himself, closing his eyes for a moment as if he's weighing his words. "I'm seeing someone," he says, his words hanging like an anvil above their heads, and he rushes to clarify his statement. "A therapist. He's a bit standoffish, but...it helps."

The way he's shifting, clearly uncomfortable with the spotlight on him, makes her love him just a little bit more. "That's great. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," he says, and this time the smile does reach his eyes.

He picks up their hands, resting them in his lap, and he goes on. He tells her he's taken an interest in painting, although perhaps not very successfully. They've got a decent amount of apples this fall, he says, and she can't help but notice the way he uses the word "we".

"I don't suppose your mother would let me use her apple pie recipe, would she?" he asks, nudging her in the side with his elbow.

"She'd probably take it as a compliment," she replies, silently thinking of how relieved her mother would be to know they were even talking again.

They talk more about life at the house and about the hospital, and he tells her again how it wasn't her fault, this time more plainly spelling out the fact he's referring to their relationship. They tiptoe along the edge of what's important, because heaven knows their problems can't be solved in one night. Eventually he stands, shifting nervously, fingers reaching out to keep her within his grasp. He knows time for talking is over, but he can't bring himself to leave. Before he can process what's happening, her lips brush against his for the briefest of moments.

She smiles, half nervous energy and half resigning herself to something she has always known is true. While she can try, life will never entirely make sense without him. "You don't have to go if you don't want to."

She's giving him an out, a chance to prolong the inevitable, but there is a light in her eyes he hasn't seen in a long time, and he's not about to be the one to snuff it out. "Scully?"

Her hand clasps his, and she walks slowly backwards away from him, eyes never breaking contact.

While it's true that not everything can be solved over night, they've at least scratched the surface, and he'll take what he can get. He watches as she presses her back against the door of a room he's never seen, walking sight unseen to where she fully intends to go. Like a fool (or perhaps the smartest man in the world), he follows.


End file.
